


The Way We Pass

by kali_asleep



Category: Over the Garden Wall (Cartoon)
Genre: F/M, Kissing, Older Characters, Slow Burn, beatrice is an angry bird, gratuitous use of the word 'dumb', ruminations on death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-09
Updated: 2015-07-09
Packaged: 2018-04-08 12:20:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,497
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4304844
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kali_asleep/pseuds/kali_asleep
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Wirt shows back up fives years later and stepping all over her pumpkins, Beatrice isn't certain what to think. What they fall into can't quite be called domestic, but it's not terrible, either.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Way We Pass

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kimpernickel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kimpernickel/gifts).



> This was meant to be a surprise birthday present for the wonderful kimpernickel, the plan being to schedule it to post on tumblr, as I was away from the internet when her birthday rolled around. As it is, the best laid plans blah blah, this thing ended up becoming a monstrous endeavor that took literally 1000 years. 
> 
> Kissing, contemplation of death, vague toying around with how many siblings Beatrice has. I do not own OTGW or it's characters, though I might like to smack one of them for being so obstinate.

She recognizes him immediately. Truth be told, she’s not quite sure how. It’s been nearly five years, and the passing time has broadened his jaw, straightened his shoulders, and left him more than a few inches taller. Gone are the peaked red hat (ridiculous) and thin cotton cape (impractical), but it doesn’t take those landmarks for her to recognize the boy - man? - boy who approaches her and her brother that windy autumn afternoon.

“Go tell Mom and the others that Wirt is back,” she hisses as she leans down to her brother, “But let them in on the game.”

Her brother ignores the tilled rows and cuts his own path through the pumpkin field, jumping over and darting around the bulbous squashes. Only at the line of trees edging the field does he turn to her to wave, before disappearing in the shadows, heading towards home. 

By now, Wirt has no doubt seen her.

Only moments later, he calls out to her. 

"Ah, excuse me, miss? A-are you from around here?"

The voice that carries across the patch is deeper than she remembers though not by much. It's Wirt, alright.

Beatrice straightens and watches as he draws nearer. There's no flare of recognition in his eyes, and the smile that rests on his face is polite, not excited. It's as she expected, and she punches down the wave of disappointment that swells in her chest.

"Yeah, I live around here. Can I help you?"

Wirt stops a few yards from her. He stares, then startles, as if remembering something. A moment later, he's tripping into an ungainly bow.

"Excuse me, Miss," and yes, no doubt, that's Wirt from toe to tip, "I'm but a humble pilgrim, wandering this vast and sprawling land on a quest, a quest to find-"

The force of will it takes to resist rolling her eyes causes her physical pain. 

"While the sun's still shining," she cuts in, unable to hide the exasperation in her voice. Of course she's thrilled to see him, beyond amused at their situation, but that doesn't mean Wirt doesn't grate on her. She can't _help_ but react.

"Oh, uh, yeah, right, sorry," he fumbles. "I'm looking for a girl and, uh, her family. They're bluebirds - or, well, I mean, they used to be bluebirds but I think they're people now, I... I don't know for sure, actually."

Crossing her arms over her chest, Beatrice gives him a look she hopes comes across as confused. 

"Wait, so are you looking for bluebirds, or people?"

Wirt rubs the back of his neck, his cheeks painted red. "People. A big family. They _used_ to be bluebirds - it was a curse - but they got the scissors they needed to break it, and-" he catches Beatrice's look and skips over whatever he was about to say," The eldest one's name was Beatrice."

She purses her lips, pretending to look thoughtful.

"You know, I _think_ I've heard stories about some people like that... My dad travels to the farther markets sometimes, he could help you. Come back to my house, O pilgrim, and we'll see about finding these bluebird people for you. And maybe getting you a change of clothes..."

She ran a scrutinizing eye over his form, noting the crusted mud stains on his strange looking blue pants and the small rips in his short-sleeved black shirt. The greasy disarray of his hair and splatters of dirt on his arms and cheeks begged for a bath. He was Wirt, but he was in the worst shape she'd ever seen him.

"I am most grateful for your benign generosity, O fairest of ladies, the-"

"Don't do that," she deadpans, turning her back to him. She begins to trace the path out of the pumpkin patch. A few seconds later she looks back over her shoulder, only to see Wirt standing motionless.

"Come on, slow poke! Before I decide to leave you to be our newest scarecrow!"

Once again he startles, but a moment later he begins trotting towards her. He slows to a walk once he catches up. They walk in silence for a few minutes, the open clearing of the pumpkin patch giving over to seemingly endless lines of poplar trees. Just as the pumpkins have been rounding out with the end of summer, so too have the trees been changing, shifting from deep greens to jewel-like reds and golds. 

"So, not to be rude or, uh, anything like that, but you're not actually like some witch who's looking for a new slave or is going to eat me or something, right?"

She stops abruptly, letting Wirt run into her back and anxiously retreat a few steps before she turns around. One raised eyebrow says it all.

"Do I look like a witch to you?"

He's immediately backtracking, hands raised in supplication as he stammers through his response.

"Uh, no! Absolutely not! I mean someone as pretty as you - I mean, it's just that I've been in the situation where - of _course_ you're not a witch, just have to be safe is all, but clearly-"

Beatrice lets out her witchiest cackle and waves him off. "Yeesh, I'm just kidding! Don't be such a worrywart."

Wirt mumbles something under his breath and kicks at the ground.

"You've gotta lighten up a little," she continues," What did you say your name was?" 

"Wirt," he mutters sourly. 

"Well, Wirt, let's get moving. It's not much longer to the house. Gotta get you home before sunset if I want the spell to hold..." She finishes in a sing-song voice.

The noise that follows behind her is half-strangled cry, half-exasperated sigh. Nonetheless, she hears his footsteps pick up behind her.

…

“Mother, I’m home!” Beatrice shouts as she leads Wirt through their long entry hall. 

The hallway is empty, but she can hear the light patter of feet and a low giggle. Her younger brothers and sisters are nearby, perhaps gathered behind the door to the dining room or peering down from the top of the staircase. Wirt shuffles quietly behind her, anxious. 

“A-are you sure?” he starts, but at that moment, her mom sweeps into the hallway. Well, this is it. Beatrice hopes Edward got the message across.

“Oh, daughter mine!” her mother exclaims. Her voice holds a regal air, and it’s clear she’s playing the game up. Beatrice hides her smile and gives her mother a curtsy she hopes Wirt won’t recognize as clumsy and out of practice.

“Mother, we have a visitor. A boy named Wirt, a wanderer from afar.”

With a flourish, Beatrice presents the stricken looking boy, who stammers out a strained greeting. Before he can finish, her mother swoops him in her broad arms and begins steering him to the dining room.

“A wanderer! You must be famished! What luck, we have just put dinner on the table. Come, join us. Daughter, dearest, please bring this young man the water basin so that he can wash up before we eat.”

“Yes, Mother,” she says. As she turns towards the kitchen, she catches her mother’s sly wink.

…

“What strange sort have you brought from our fields, Sister?”

The question comes from Janine who, at fifteen, is the second eldest girl of their parent’s brood. Like their mother, Janine voice is heavy and formal, and it’s obvious that she and the others are having just as much fun as Beatrice. All at Wirt’s expense.

“Well, dear, this is Wirt. He’s a pilgrim of sorts.”

Wirt mumbles something that sounds like “I can introduce myself,” but Beatrice carries on regardless.

“Wirt is looking for a family of bluebirds! Or rather, a family that used to be bluebirds.”

“Why sister,” Samuel, the oldest boy, replies, “That sounds like some sort of cursed lot. A tragedy for sure, around these parts.”

She rolls her eyes. Sam, fourteen when they’d been turned, was still bitter about the change; she was surprised he’d even agreed to the game.

Her siblings begin to launch questions at Wirt, asking where he came from and if he could tell them more about the bluebird family. At the head of the table, her father smiles, amused, but says little. Her mother flits about, filling plates, scolding squirming little ones, straightening the backs of slouching older ones. Wirt looks increasingly overwhelmed with each passing moment, and Beatrice couldn’t be more delighted.

“Be- uh- sister,” Henry, one of the younger ones, says, “Sorry, uh, could you pass me the butter?”

Beatrice frowns at him and passes him the butter without a word.

“Sorry,” he says quietly, “I got excited and almost forgot.”

She punches him lightly on the arm and shakes her head. 

“Don’t ruin the fun, kiddo.”

…

"Did you seriously think I wouldn't figure it out?"

Beatrice jumps, and her hands clutch to the balcony rail to keep herself from pitching forward. Once she's steadied, she whirls around, scowling at Wirt. He shrugs apologetically; her heart pounds up into her ears, still reacting to the shock.

"Wirt," she breathes, "What are you doing on my balcony?"

"Technically I'm still in your window, _Beatrice_ ," he shoots back.

It's true: Wirt balances on the wide windowsill, feet splayed below and hands clinging above. Behind him, her bedroom is dimly lit, and her door wide open.

She crosses her arms over her chest, trying to hide how heavily she's breathing.

"How did you figure it out?"

"Can I come down from here?" Wirt asks instead, cocking his head to avoid hitting it on the window frame.

"How did you figure it out, _Wirt_?"

"If you're mad that I'm out here, just know that I knocked first."

This time she does roll her eyes. 

"Yeah, whatever, thanks. How did you figure it out?"

She assumes the expression he's going for it 'serious', but the attempt is undermined by his abnormal positioning.

"Beatrice, never in my entire life leading up to the first time I came to this strange world, and never since leaving, have I ever met anyone as rude and contrary as you," he states.

"You can come down from the window," she grumbles, uncrossing her arms. Beatrice stares at him as he slowly unfolds himself onto the balcony, joints popping. 

She continues to stare at him as he stands, arms swinging at his sides. Of all unexpected things, he stares back. 

"So that's how you figured out it was me, huh?"

The longer she stares, the more he starts to squirm. Nonetheless, it takes a long time for him to finally break her gaze.

"Your, uh, brother Henry told me after dinner," Wirt concedes with a sigh. "But as soon as he said it, I knew that was your voice!"

"I'll pummel that little twerp!" Beatrice growls before turning on her heel and bracing herself on the balcony's railing.

It takes a few moments for Wirt to cross the few feet of the balcony and join her. Leaning against the rail, he looks at her until she deigns to look back.

"He... He reminds me a lot of Greg when he was younger," Wirt says softly.

Perhaps it's the cold bite of autumn, or maybe the melancholy tinting Wirt's words, but Beatrice shivers. 

"How is that crazy kid doing? I'm surprised he didn't insist on coming along."

Wirt looks out at the yard below. Fixes his gaze on the poplars. Shudders. Takes a deep breath. 

And then he smiles. Beatrice ignores the sickly knot growing in her gut, ignores the small voice screaming that something is not okay.

"He's doing fine..." 

His voice falters, and Beatrice is about to ask, but he picks up again.

"Doing great. Just great. He joined chorus, you know? Can't get him to stop singing. And he's really into amphibians. After Jason Funderburker died, we thought Greg'd be done, but no..."

"Jason Funderburker?"

Wirt laughs, sounding surprised. "That's right, you never found out. Greg finally settled on a name for that frog he carried around everywhere. Anyway, after Jason died, Greg spent six months building this crazy frog habitat and looking for just the right frog. He's got five frogs now, I think, and a salamander. The slimy stuff's not really my thing, but it keeps him happy..."

Wirt trails into silence.

"That's good. Great," Beatrice says stiffly. It's true - she's delighted to hear that Greg is doing well, is still Greg, but she can't get past how... upset Wirt sounds. 

“I bet he’s mad that you’re here and he’s not,” she says before the silence creeps back in.

It’s the wrong thing to say, and she knows it instantly, though she can’t imagine how, or why. Perhaps it’s the shadow that forms in the divot of his brow, or the tight press of his lips when he smiles at her.

“I'm sure he'll find a way to keep himself busy while I'm gone," Wirt replies. 

"Speaking of which, how long are you hanging around?"

"Here, or in general?"

Her brow furrows at the response. 

"Can't you say anything without being a weirdo?" she demands, stamping a foot. 

"Not if it provokes that reaction," Wirt says, and it's the first time all night his laugh has seemed genuine. 

"I wasn't kidding about the wandering bit," he continues,"I'll stick around as long as you and your family will tolerate me, and then move on after that, I guess. I hadn't thought much about anything beyond finding you."

"Oh."

Because how does she respond to that? Of all the people in all the whole wide world, Wirt comes back just to see her? Beatrice bites at her lip, relishing in the painful crackle of the wind-dried skin there. 

"I... I think I'm going to hit the hay," Wirt starts, "Except metaphorically, you know, because I think this is the first night back where I don't literally have to sleep in hay."

"Do whatever you want," Beatrice says. The tone of her voice, soft, doesn't match the intended flippancy of her words. "Can you make it back to your room on your own, or do you need me to hold your hand on the way back?"

"No, no, I can handle it. Besides, I don't exactly trust that you wouldn't take me to the barn or somewhere else first..."

"Why I never!" Beatrice exclaims, fighting back a snort. 

Wirt pushes away from the railing, and then pauses. 

"Thank you, Beatrice," he says, and his voice is so close to a whisper that she almost mistakes the sound for the low susurrous of the wind.

"Yeah, yeah, don't get all teary-eyed. I suppose I owe you one, for the whole 'not being a bluebird anymore' thing."

"I mean it," Wirt says. 

Her back is to him, which is why she's shocked when he wraps his arms around her and hugs her tightly. She stiffens, unable to push or pull away. A moment later, he lets go. 

The muttered curse as he, presumably, thunks his head on the window frame, followed by the click of her bedroom door, reassures her that she's finally alone. Slowly, she releases the breath she didn't know she'd been holding.

…

Naturally, her family _loves_ Wirt.

Beatrice isn't sure what's more obnoxious: the way her mother hovers over her new guest, proffering snacks and clean clothes and tidbits of gossip; or how the younger girls giggle and blush in the corner while the boys cling to his pant legs or challenge him to log-splitting contests (he declines, and for some reason it makes the boys admire him more). Wirt accepts them all with his typical awkward courtesy, his self-conscious muttering and constant 'Yeah, okay, sure'-s endearing him even more to them.

So Beatrice avoids him like the plague, at least for the first day, going about her chores with her nose in the air. And it's not that she minds him being here, it's simply that Wirt doesn't need to get used to being waited on hand and foot. He doesn't need to be the center of attention all of the time, nor does she need to be part of that swarming, red-headed crowd.

It's not until dinner that Beatrice speaks to Wirt, only asking him to pass the gravy. Once or twice he attempts to engage her in conversation, only to have one of her siblings swoop in to eagerly answer his questions. Wirt gives her mother a faltering laugh when she asks if he wants a second helping of 'dirt'; Beatrice stabs at her peas.

"Well," her father proclaims once they've finished dessert, "I see a flock of chicks who need to start making their way back to their nests."

"But Da-ad!" Thomas protests, curling his chubby hand into a small fist. "I wanna stay up wiv W-wirt!"

Seven shining pairs of eyes peer up at their father, pleading. Two pairs watch, interested. One pair raises to the heavens, nearly rolling out of their sockets. 

"Get," their father insists. Nine of the children stand, grumbling under their breaths, and push in their chairs. Beatrice too stands, making her way to the other side of the table to start clearing the table. Her siblings trickle out of the dining room in a straggling line, herded out by Samuel and Janine. Lucille, five and last in line, turns.

"Wirty-Wirt, will you read us a story at bedtime?"

Occupied as she is in ignoring Wirt, Beatrice almost misses his response. 

"No, I think I'm okay, thanks," he says hurriedly. Her mother shoos Lucille out, then follows them, tsk-ing gently.

She continues stacking dishes, working her way around the table. By the time Wirt speaks up, she's nearly got the entire load piled precariously in her arms.

"Let me help?"

Looking up, Beatrice sees Wirt standing across the table from her, arms swinging by his sides. One glance reveals that her father has, somehow, managed to leave without her noticing. Perhaps she was concentrating too hard on ignoring him.

"Oh sure, wait until I've done most of the work to offer," she sneers.

Balancing the stack of dishes on her hip, she leans over to pick up her father's mug, only to have it slide out of her reach a split second later. Wirt shoots her the sweetest grin as he cups the mug in both hands.

"You've got it," he says cheekily, trailing her into the kitchen. 

"You know what?" Wirt continues as Beatrice sets the dishes down by the sink with a huff. 

"No, and I don't care."

He ignores her, rambling on in a way that she can't quite tell is genuine or intentionally obnoxious.

"I think you've been avoiding me all day today."

What is she supposed to say to that? Pulling a sour face, she tugs at the heavy faucet until water begins to chug out. It takes a few more seconds for it to warm; by then, Wirt has joined her at the sink and is rolling his sleeves up. She hands him a thick bar of soap with a sigh.

"It's a shame," he says, "seeing as, with you avoiding me and all, I haven't had my daily quota of teasing and berating."

"Clearly you're suffering for it," she mutters, hefting the first batch of plates into the water. 

"It's true. When unpruned by your cutting remarks, my ego turns to wild growth, clinging to any rough branch of praise."

She glances over to see him watching her, grin fixed on his face.

Without a doubt, Wirt deserves the faceful of water she aims at him then; Beatrice figures she was being considerate, splashing him before he'd had a chance to scrub in the soap. His reaction is slowed by surprise, leaving him soaked and sputtering. 

"Seemed reasonable your ego needed a bit of watering, too," she teases.

Wirt wipes at his face with his sleeve, but isn't able to do much to get dry. He stares at her for a long moment, eyes wide, and for the briefest of moments, Beatrice thinks he might do something about it, might get back at her. But it's Wirt, obviously, and so he heaves a sigh and hunches his shoulders and starts going at the dishes with a washrag.

He washes, she dries. She can't help the smug smile that settles on her face or when, moments later, as Wirt passes her the gravy dish, she hisses "Pushover."

 _It's just like the olden days,_ Beatrice thinks cheerfully. Sure, towards the end Wirt had proved he had _some_ spine, but he'd never been able to rebuff her, not really. This is the dynamic she knows, the only thing that hasn't changed since she was a bluebird and he was Beast fodder.

They finish the dishes in silence, Beatrice in a considerably better mood than before. She loads the dry dishes into Wirt's waiting arms and points him to the appropriate shelves, then leans back to watch him work.   
From the back it's even more apparent that he's filled into his frame in the last few years. He's still gangly, but there's now some heft there, muscle in the widened back, strength in the taut arms. Less juvenile.

"Uh, B-Beatrice?"

"What is it, Wirt?" she sighs.

"Could you uh, come look at this plate and tell me if it was chipped here before?"

"Oh, you didn't," Beatrice says, burying her face in her hands, "Those are Mom's favorite stupid plates."

She crosses the kitchen and peers down at the plate Wirt has set on the counter. He leans in behind her, fidgeting.

"What are you talking ab-"

Revulsion sweeps down her spine as she's hit in the neck with something warm and soggy. She reaches up to pull the sopping washrag away from her, but it's too late: her neck and back are drenched. Spinning on her heel, she's finds Wirt is halfway to the kitchen door.

"Now our egos are even," he calls as he pushes the door open," Goodnight, Beatrice!"

She takes back her previous assessment. Not even a little less juvenile.

…

"If I wanted a dog or a duckling I would have gotten one," Beatrice grumbles as Wirt upends a bucket and plops down next to her. 

Even the many huddled bodies of waiting cows don't warm the barn enough for her comfort, and her general early-morning grumpiness is only amplified by the boy to her left. It's the third time in just as many days that he's followed her through her morning chores, though her mother refuses to let him help.

"Ducklings make terrible pets," he says in lieu of a greeting, "Greg's Easter ducklings may or may not have gotten themselves lost to a duck pond a few towns over three years back. Like the displaced duckling, I too find myself wondering what strange whirlwind of fate has brought me to this lonely, unfeeling pond, where not even a fellow fowl will find me friend."

He drifts off sadly, but Beatrice knows well enough by this point that he's not serious.

"One, bluebirds aren't waterfowl, they're just, I don't know, bird birds. And two, I'm not a bluebird anymore, so don't even start."

Wirt shrugs and leans in to watch as she begins milking the first waiting cow. Warmth follows him and begins to drift over her. As annoyed as she might be about his constant presence, even before sunrise, she can't deny that he's a surprisingly effective space heater.

They move down the bovine line, scooting their buckets-turned-chairs down as Beatrice works through the cows. After long enough, even she'll concede that it's peaceful: the gentle lowing of the animals, Wirt's warm breath rising up in regular puffs.

"We are friends though... Right?"

Of course, Wirt has to ruin it.

"What a stupid question," Beatrice grunts. She pulls her bucket over, then tugs him into her place. "Come on, it's about time you took over."

"But-"

"Hands on the udders, Wirt."

…

Days spin into weeks. The poplars fade from red to muted yellows and browns. Her parents insist that Wirt stays, as long as he desires, and Wirt in turn insists that he's given work.

They start him in the barns, where Beatrice has already handed over all cow milking responsibilities. Soon he moves to the field, where the older boys and some of the men from the nearby village bring in the corn harvests and heave large pumpkins into carts. Each evening Wirt comes in sweat-drenched despite the ever-cooling air and smiling from ear-to-ear. 

Loathe as she is to admit it, dinners are more amusing with Wirt's added company than they have been in years. Once the novelty of calling meals 'dirt' wore off and her family settled back into being human, dinner (and life as a whole) faded into the same stagnant humdrum as before. But a few days after Wirt starts working, Wirt starts _telling_. It's almost as if the labor sweats the confidence up to the surface of his skin; it condenses and drips from his lips in endless stories. 

In the back of her mind, Beatrice has always known Wirt was from somewhere pretty far away. For months after he'd handed over Adelaide's scissors and disappeared, she'd sat up at night wondering just where he and Greg were from. The answer, if even half of Wirt's tales were true, is more unbelievable than she could have anticipated: a world of carriages that drive themselves, of markets filled with cheap clothes that never had to be hand-stitched or patched, of entire libraries small enough to fit in a hand. To tell who is more entranced by his words, Beatrice or her siblings, is an impossible feat. 

When Wirt went back, she was making him take her. In fact, she wants to leave with him immediately.

One night after the tales have tapered out and they've cleared the dishes from the table, Beatrice sneaks from her room to Wirt's. Not that there's a need to _sneak_ \- she's not a child anymore - just that she can't resist any chance to prank him. 

The door to his room is open a crack, letting a sliver of light cut across her feet. Slowly pushing at the door so as not to make it creak, Beatrice weasels her way into his bedroom. Wirt had always struck her as the compulsively tidy type, but the room's dusting of paper scraps, pen nibs, clothing, and more, proves her wrong. She toes around an abandoned book and a hill of crumpled blotting papers to where Wirt is sitting at his desk, back to her. He's hunched over a journal her father had brought for him, scribbling furiously in tight, barely legible lines. Next to the journal sits a thick leather wallet and, in it, a portrait of a girl Beatrice has never seen before.

She realizes immediately that the image is not painted - it's flat and glossy, of some material Beatrice is certain must be unique to where Wirt came from. It's as if the girl has been plucked from life and frozen in a glimpse of time. Dark skinned with a round face, her smile and gaze fixates on some unseen point. Her hair falls in loose ringlets down to her shoulders. The portrait is only a bust, and hints at the edge of a black dress. Beatrice is so captivated by the unexpected image - what was it doing in Wirt's possession? - that she forgets to sound scornful instead of curious.

"Is that your betrothed?"

Wirt yelps and tosses up his hands in surprise. His pen leaves a thick splotch on his paper before being unintentionally launched into the air. Clutching at his chest, he stares at her with wide eyes.

"Was that-" he says through heaving breaths, "Necessary? You could have knocked."

"Yeah, sure, but where's the fun in that? So is that the girl you were waxing lyrical about all those years ago?"

Placing her hands on the back of his chair, Beatrice leans over Wirt's shoulder to get a better view. He hastily slams shut his journal - like she'd had any interest in reading it up until he went and did that - then pulls his wallet closer. He shakes his head.

"I can't believe you remember that - I think you made fun of me for three or four hours about how dumb it was to like a girl I never talked to. But yeah, that's Sara."

Wirt props his chin in a hand and uses his other to stroke at the space around the girl's face. Framed in the orange light of his flickering lamp, Wirt's expression seems all the more wistful, dramatic even. The smile that curls over his lips is a soft one, and his half-lidded eyes go distant. Despite having never seen that expression before, Beatrice thinks she knows what it means.

"So are you two betrothed then? Tying the knot? Settling down?"

It takes him a long time to respond. She leans further in, preparing to tap him on the forehead, but then she's close enough to catch his scent: the tang of sweat and dirt softened by the nuttiness of her mother's handmade soap. Despite never having felt that twist in her chest before, Beatrice thinks she knows what it means. She flicks him on the forehead, hard.

"Oh, you mean like married?" he responds after swatting her hand away. "No. Well, not y- no. We've been - or, well, we dated for about four years, through the rest of high school and the start of college, so of course we talked about it, but..."

"What, did she realize what a wimp you were and leave you?"

She knows the words are cruel, even for her, even for them. It takes her back to when they first met, when she was a bluebird, and angry, and he was just some stupid kid in her way. But it's not like that now - Beatrice isn't quite sure what it's like now. Instead of letting loose squawk of protest and trying to deny it, Wirt's smile just tips from wistful to sad.

"No," he says, "I left her, technically. To come here."

 _To find me_ Beatrice thinks, but she says, "Sara must have been mad about that."

"I didn't really tell her in advance, but she's probably pretty angry, that's a fair prediction."

"Why didn't you tell her? Seems like a pretty horrible move if you ask me. Greg knew, right?"

"What did you come in here for?" Wirt asks abruptly, "Things can't be so dull that you're now relying on _me_ for entertainment. I am, by your own words, the 'Most Boring Thing on Two Legs'."

Without a doubt she's touched a nerve. By now it must be raw for the amount of times she's prodded there, but still Wirt is resilient. Whatever secret it is that he's keeping from her, he's holding it too close, which means she just has to keep prying away at it.

"When are you going back, Wirt?" Beatrice asks, smiling and fluttering her eyelashes.

"What do you _want_ , Beatrice?"

Oh, he sounds angry now.

"To know when you're going back to wherever it is you came from."

He rolls his eyes and tosses up his hands. As close as she was leaning into him, this motion forces her to step back. With a pout, she sits down on his bed and folds her hands in her lap. Wirt turns in his chair to face her, looking frazzled.

"Gee, Beatrice, you could have said something about how desperate you were to get rid of me. Would have saved us both the trouble. And here I was starting to think we were moving towards a path free of antagonism, but my own mind was addled by-"

"Shut _up_ , Wirt. I don't want to get rid of you, I want to go _with you_. I want to see the cars and the blenders and the spell phones-"

"Cell phones-"

"And go to college and eat french fries and do all the things you talked about! I want to see Greg again and meet his dumb frogs! Everything sounds so much better, so much more _exciting_ where you're from, and when you go back, you _have_ to take me."

She stares at him intently, heart pounding with the sudden ferocity of her confession. The expression he meets her with is not the one she expected - it's stony, and he clenches both jaw and fists. Nonetheless, she charges ahead.

"Let's go now. Soon. As soon as possible. We've got supplies in the larder, enough to last us however long the trip is. Before it gets too cold."

"Is it really so bad here?" His voice is flat.

" _Yes_ ," she says emphatically, "All there is to do is milk cows and embroider napkins and stare out the window. The most exciting thing that's ever happened to me here was being turned into a bluebird and meeting you. I don't want to be a bird again, and you're just so weird and mysterious that it makes everything else even more uninteresting in comparison."

"I like milking-" Wirt stops, and his eyes widen. The tension drains from his face and her chest. "Wait? Did _you_ just say that meeting me was the most exciting thing that's ever happened to you?"

Wirt leans forward in his chair, tipping it onto two legs until his face is maybe half a foot from hers. He narrows his eyes and twists his lips, seeming suspicious. 

"I meant Greg mostly, really," Beatrice says, but Wirt's already started grinning, and she knows it's too late.

"You think I'm mysterious?"

"And weird!"

" _You_ want to come with _me_ on an adventure."

Beatrice turns her face away from his and raises her chin. She can feel the way her cheeks burn, and hopes the lantern light is dim enough to hide it. 

"I want to go back to your world, Wirt. Don't let that ego of yours get so over inflated. You're my way out of here, nothing more, nothing less."

"Suuuuuuuure," he drawls, but he spoils his moment of glory as he tips forward in the chair a hair too far. 

Wirt's face slams into the bed and the chair hits the floor with a loud clatter. His body drapes awkwardly over bed and chair alike, and Beatrice is, miraculously, saved from Wirt by his own negligence. She bursts into laughter as Wirt tries to right himself without falling over the chair. 

After a few tragic attempts, Wirt untangles himself from floor and chair and bed and Beatrice finally stifles her giggles. 

"That was embarrassing," Wirt mutters, sending her into laughter once more.

Sighing, he flops down next to her on the bed. He's gotten so tall that his head rests on the side opposite of where she sits while his legs dangle far over on her side. She twists around to see him.

"You okay?" she asks, because the truth is, she cares, and despite how stupid he is, he knows it.

"Yeah." Wirt sighs again. "No? Maybe?"

Beatrice flips over onto her stomach and stretches out next to him. Resting her head in her arms, she watches the conflict of emotions scuttle over his face. She waits.

She's not sure how much time passes before Wirt speaks again, but she does know that it's long enough for her breathing to deepen and her eyelids to get heavy. She has to blink the bleariness from her eyes when he starts.

"Beatrice. I don't think I can go back."

Dread hits her gut. Scrambling into a sitting position, Beatrice looks down at Wirt with wide eyes. 

"What do you mean?"

"I can't go back. Never. I don't know how, and I don't think I can anyway. I'm just as stuck here as you are, maybe even more so."

The rage that hits her tongue and glazes over her eyes wants to surge out, wants to lash him with abuse until he takes back what he's said. But in that moment, Wirt looks more distraught, more lost, than he ever has before. The closest she can remember to the expression he gives her now is the desperate, wild face he'd pulled on when they both realized Greg had gone missing in the snow. Even this is something different, something somehow more terrible. 

And so she swallows everything, including the pressing question, the _why_. 

"Tough break there, Wirt," she says instead, "Looks like we're going to have to suffer and be miserable together. Just typical."

Reaching over, she places a hand over his. As intent as she is on fighting down her blush, Beatrice nearly misses the way Wirt's cheeks darken. Nearly.

…

The stories don’t necessarily stop after then, but dinners come to change in a way Beatrice begins to understand. Wirt starts asking questions. He asks her mother about when the resinberries are the ripest and how she makes her jams; asks her father about the markets he travels to each season and the lands that lay beyond them; asks Beatrice about the migratory patterns of regional birds (these, she knows, he asks to annoy her, but also because he’s figured out, somehow, that between her chores she likes to watch the way they flock). 

Nighttime snuffs the sun earlier and earlier each day, and more and more often Beatrice finds herself sprawled out across Wirt's bed, exchanging complaints about their younger siblings while Wirt doodles in his journal. Eventually, her mother pulls her aside and half-heartedly reminds her that she is a lady of a certain age, and as such, it is inappropriate for her to be spending as much time as she does in a man's room, _even as gentle and polite a man as Wirt, but the neighbors have started talking and no good ever comes from that._ Mustering up every ounce of maturity she has, Beatrice insists she understands and promises her mom that she'll stop. Immediately after dinner that night, she pulls Wirt aside and teaches him how to sneak onto the balcony outside of her room from his window. 

They're huddled together on the balcony (for warmth, as is practical) when Wirt brings it up. Beatrice had been sharing with him some her aerial sketches, recalled from her time as a bird, and had all-in-all been enjoying her night. As such, she's immediately put off when Wirt breaks away from his praise of her drawings to say:

"Your dad asked me today if I was going to marry you."

The sketchbook in her hands drops to the floor, and she nearly tips over the lantern with the way her hands flail.

"What?" she exclaims, and she doesn't care that her voice echoes out across the lawn and over the nearby fields, "You? Marry me? Me? You? But I don't even _like_ you!"

Wirt's arms are up in the air now too, and his voice takes on a note of panic.

"I know, I told him that too! But he kept insisting, going on about how he sees me like a son-"

"He's got six of them, what does he need another for? I-"

"And how your family is 'forever in my debt' for the scissors-"

"-That was one time!"

"Of course then he brought up our ages-"

"-I'm older than you! You're basically twelve!"

"How we were becoming adults and it was time to start being respectable-"

"-Oh don't get me started, Mom was going off on the same thing, how the neighbors are talking like we're off gallivanting in the bushes-"

"All of this marriage talk and I haven't even kissed you yet, but-"

Utter stillness falls between them. 

Autumn wind races through the leaves of the fading poplars, stirring up a chorus of wordless whispers. It does nothing to break their silence. Wirt pulls away from Beatrice. He stands up on shaky legs and begins to back up, towards the railing of the balcony. Without turning around, he puts a hand on the rail and begins to hoist himself up. It’s the slowest escape she’s ever seen, and she’s still too stunned to react. 

Wirt makes it halfway from her balcony to the window of his room, toeing backwards along the thin ledge between the two, before he has to break eye contact to keep from plummeting to (at the least) his certain grave injury. As if his gaze had been a physical force holding her in place, Beatrice finds she’s standing the moment he looks away. He’s too far for her to reach out, but she leans over the railing and quietly calls to him.

“Wirt-”

“Beatrice,” he hisses back, "I am so sorry, that was completely uncalled for. If we could just both undergo mutual amnesia - maybe there’s a witch who could do it, or some kind of magical plant - and never even know that happened - yeah, that would work-”

“Wirt, hold on a second.”

The sound of the wind and the trees and her mother’s voice in her head are all drowned out by how loudly her heart is pounding, and it’s stupid, it’s _so_ unbelievably dumb what she knows she’s about to say, but Beatrice lets the words fall out anyway.

“Maybe sometime when you’re not such a wimpy pushover idiot, I’d consider the possibility of changing that.”

She crosses her arms over her chest and looks away. There’s not a single chance that Wirt can’t see how red her face is, even in the near-black night. 

“Oh,” he breathes. “Alright. Okay then.”

His window creaks open. Framed by the light coming from his bedroom, Wirt looks at her over his shoulder.

“Good night, Beatrice.”

Huffing a sharp breath through her nose, she rolls her eyes.

“Good night, Wirt.”

…

“I’d like to, sometime.”

“Do what?”

“You know what.”

“Say it.”

“I’d like to kiss you sometime.”

“Sometime?”

“Eventually.”

“Wow, is that how you wooed Sara, too?”

“You know what, I take it back.”

“Whatever, back to work. Those cows aren’t going to milk themselves.”

…

Snow falls early on half-emptied fields. 

Her father spends the entire morning grumbling about rushed harvests and trying to salvage what they can, but they’ve already got plenty to market, and Wirt leans into her to keep her warm while they work in the barn, so really, things are just fine.

By the time afternoon rolls around, her parents have decided there’s no point sitting around the house, not in this weather, so Beatrice and Wirt are charged with taking the others outside to let loose all the energy that otherwise would have been expended on chores. 

Nine bodies push past them, eager to get through the door, and nine bodies slip and fall on the patch of slick ice that’s formed on the front step. Wirt carefully steps around the squirming pile of redheads and offers a hand to Beatrice. She takes his hand and steps over the ice and children with a mock daintiness. Even after they’ve cleared the danger of ice and siblings, Wirt keeps her hand tucked in his. Beatrice doesn’t protest, much.

Together, they pile the snow into a fortress (Wirt insists they make something he calls a ‘snowman’, but Beatrice wins out) and bombard the older kids with snowballs. Only once does Beatrice shove snow in Wirt’s face, and he gets her back moments later with a scoop of the stuff dropped down the back of her coat.

“Wood to waste the wild winters! Fuel to burn away the cold of the empty hearth!”

A clear voice rings out across the field. 

The younger children scatter immediately, some running back towards the house, a few of the braver ones tucking themselves behind Beatrice and Wirt. 

“Kindling to grind down the cold edge of ice! Hot enough to melt away love’s cruel remorse!”

The older children stand their ground for the most part, only taking a few steps back or looking at Beatrice, a shade too frightened to look concerned. Most are old enough to remember the tales back when they were true, but still too young to understand when past is past. Beatrice rolls her eyes and waves, catching the attention of The Woodsman and his daughter.

“Is that-?” Wirt starts.

He’s close enough that Beatrice can feel when he tenses, and a moment later he renews his tight grip on her hand.

“Relax,” she murmurs, doing her best to talk to Wirt and smile at the approaching pair at the same time. “You and Greg pretty much saved the guy and his daughter. He’s harmless nowadays.”

Beatrice tries to imagine the differences Wirt might see in the old man that stops in front of them. She’s seen him at least once a year ever since Wirt and Greg left. Older, perhaps, but he was always old. Lighter, maybe, Certainly happier, the lines set deep in his face more likely to be curved upwards with a smile. 

“Woodsman,” she greets. 

He nods, and both he and his daughter unsling their packs from their backs.

“Bluebird,” the Woodsman responds, causing Beatrice to scowl. She knows it’s no use correcting him - they’ve been through it before, he does it on purpose. His daughter gives her a small smile and begins pulling out long, slender branches and arranging them on the snow.

“No need for the display,” Beatrice says, flapping her hand. “Wood is wood is wood, we’ll use the same amount this winter as we did the last.”

“Ah, but my dear,” the Woodsman says, “This winter has come earlier than the rest, and promises to last longer. A sign of change.”

“Hello.”

For such a small sound, Wirt’s word draws the attention of all around - Woodsman, daughter, children, Beatrice. For the first time, the Woodsman notices the boy practically clinging to Beatrice, and is part of the way through tipping his hat when he gives a gasp.

“You’ve become quite the man,” he says, lowering his hand and staring at Wirt with an unreadable expression. “How long has it been, now?”

“F-five years.”

The Woodsman shakes his head and smiles.

"I owe my life to you, my friend. I would have never been able to free myself - or my daughter - from the Beast without your aid. But..."

His face scrunches up, and his narrowed eyes trace the length of Wirt's face. Beatrice glances to Wirt who, unconsciously, has started leaning heavily into her. Despite the way the cold wind whips at them all, Wirt is pale and wide-eyed.

"I had hoped I might not see you here again for many years, not until you were as grey and wrinkled as I."

Wirt's knees buckle; she can feel it in the sudden weight he bears on her arm. Alarmed, Beatrice turn to him with a question on her lips. It dies when she sees his fixation on the Woodsman.

The words are barely audible when he whispers, "So it's true."

The Woodsman nods solemnly. "It's _a_ truth, though not, I hope you find, the only one. I am still sorry it had to be so. And the little one?"

Beatrice doesn't have to be holding on to know Wirt is shaking; she can _see_ the way he twitches and sways.

"Wirt, what-?"

"Greg?," Wirt says, ignoring her, "He- he was in the car with me when it happened... But I woke up here alone so..."

Smiling sadly, the Woodsman is able to say, "At least there is some joy in that," before Beatrice is suddenly struck by the winter's cold. A moment later she registers that Wirt has let go of her, is fleeing across the fields. He stumbles, trips, and lands on his hands, but is back up in the next instant.

"What did you-?" Beatrice spits angrily at the Woodsman, but she can't keep anything straight, so instead of finishing she takes off after Wirt.

Icy air bites at her eyes and stings all the way down to her lungs. When Wirt learned to run so fast, she has no clue, but it's a real problem now that he's tearing towards the house, not even looking back when she calls to him. He scarcely pauses at the door, slipping through it and disappearing inside before Beatrice can stop him. 

"He went upstairs, Bea!" one of the little ones calls as she swings through to door and charges down the hall. There's a flurry of voice and motion Beatrice vaguely recognizes as her mother, then she's racing up the stairs to Wirt's room.

His door is locked. 

“Wirt! Wirt!”

Beatrice tugs at the doorknob until it’s obvious that it’s not going to open, after which she begins pounding on the heavy wood.

“Wirt, please open up! What even happened back there? You’re freaking everyone out!”

Her chest constricts. Silence reigns from the other side of the door. It feels as though the world is dropping out from under her feet. Beatrice slams her fist against the door until it aches, then keeps going.

“You’re freaking me out,” she shouts, “And that is _not_ okay! It’s not okay, Wirt!”

Knocking proves useless; Beatrice starts to kick at the door. She could _kill_ him for making her do this, for making her need to make sure he was okay. Stupid, awful, worthless, wimpy Wirt who was never anything but trouble. Both fists find their way to the door now, and Wirt’s still not opening up. Miserable, idiot, puny Wirt who can’t stop grabbing her hand or laughing that dumb laugh or making her _worry_.

She’ll _kill_ him.

…

Some version of what happened in the fields passes to her parents. Her mother shepherds the children away and leaves Beatrice to wage her war against Wirt’s door.

Every instrument in her arsenal comes out. After the kicking comes the screaming, high-pitched wails refined during her early teen years. Following that is the scratching, then the ramming of her shoulder into the door. At some point the rage takes over where fear falls short, and the cycle begins again, louder, more vicious. His name turns into angry howls in her throat. Still, the door remains firmly locked.

Minutes, or hours, or days later, her father storms up the stairs, throws his arms around her waist, and drags Beatrice down to the dinner table. The distinct lack of her own screaming leaves her ears ringing. They eat in silence.

…

“You’ve got some serious anger issues.”

Beatrice’s head shoots up. After dinner, she’d slunk away to her bedroom and curled into a ball in the far corner of the balcony. It was dark, now, likely well past midnight, and Wirt slides down from the rail and crouches down next to her.

“Shut up, I hate you, don’t talk to me,” she says, voice hoarse.

Wirt sighs. 

“Beatrice - and I mean this as your friend - you’re a piece of work. The most awful and traumatic thing to ever happen to me is confirmed today, as you somehow find a way to make this about you.”

Glaring, she unfolds her arms from around her knees and shoves at his chest. He wobbles, then collapses with a satisfying thud. 

“Maybe if you’d just _told_ me what was wrong-”

“Oh, so now you’re accusing me of not communicating? Rich, just wonderful. You couldn’t have given me just a few, teensy, tiny moments to process what was happening-”

“You flipped out and ran off! What was I supposed to do!”

“You could start by letting me finish my sentences!” Wirt shouts, pulling hard at his hair. His shoulders shake as he pants hard. Tears sit at the corner of his eyes. Beatrice bites back her words.

It takes some time for Wirt to regain control of his breathing, and longer still to straighten and look her in the eyes.

“Beatrice,” he begins, “I’m. I-”

Wirt falters. Swallows. Shakes his head like he’s shaking off sleep. She wonders if this is what it feels like to stand, toes to the edge of a cliff. A knot forms in her stomach, and the blood drains from her face.

“I died. I’m dead.”

The dam breaks loose.

“I’m dead,” he repeats, “I died and it happened and I’m dead. For real. I’m dead. Gone.”

Wirt’s fingers dig into his face. His eyes glaze over; he’s looking at her, but he’s looking past her, into so deep, dark a space she can’t fathom.

“Dead. Died. It’s over. And I can’t go back.”

Beatrice clamps her hands on his shoulders.

“Wirt, you’re not making any sense. You’re not dead! You’re right here!”

Even as the words leave her, dread creeps in. Wirt is shaking now, as he had when speaking to the Woodsman.

"No, that's the thing Beatrice, if I'm here, in this world or whatever it is, then I'm dead. And the Woodsman knew it! He said so!"

"Don't be an idiot," she breathes, "I'm here, and I'm alive, so that means you are too."

He peers at her, blinking rapidly to try and restrain the tears still building. One flows over and slips down his cheek.

"Are you sure?"

The tone of his voice chills her more than the cold air, more than the words themselves. It's the sound of despair, and fear, and utter pain balled into one.

"Yeah, I'm sure," she says, but it comes out more like a squeak.

Wirt buries his face in his hands and talks to her through his fingers.

"You didn't know this, about last time, and I didn't either, not until afterwards, but Greg and I didn't just wander here by happenstance. We fell onto some train tracks, then into the river. Found ourselves here, thinking it was some kind of magic, just some weird place. Except that after I rescued Greg, I... We woke up right back in that river, the exact same night we'd left. Me and Greg _drowned_. We probably died, and would have stayed that way if we hadn't gone back."

Now she's shaking - his words, the idea behind it is just too unreal. 

"That proves nothing."

Beatrice doesn't like the way Wirt laughs at that. It's an ugly, wet sound that sticks in his throat and transforms into a sob part of the way through. 

"Do you want to know what happened before I found myself wandering through these woods again?"

She wants to shake her head. Say no. The truth is, Beatrice doesn't want to know, has no interest in finding out whatever it is that has Wirt shuddering and sobbing. She nods.

"I was driving Greg home at night from a friend's house. A car going the opposite direction swerved into our lane, and I lost control of the car trying to avoid them. The car careened off the road, into a ditch, and then I was here. Walking through the woods. Alone."

However she had felt before, on the wrong side of that stupid door, _this_ is exponentially worse. Wirt's sobs have quieted into jerky, harsh breaths. Beatrice understands that _this_ is the sound the world makes when it's falling out from underneath, _this_ is how it feels to have everything believed to be true crumble into bits. 

"It can't be," she mutters. 

In response, Wirt collapses in on himself, curling up until he's fetal. 

Her heart thumps erratically, painfully for someone who is supposed to be dead. 

"Dead people don't turn into bluebirds," she says, a little louder, "I've lived here my entire life. I watched Mom give birth to all nine of those kids. Dead people aren't born, dead people don't have _babies_."

"How do you know?" Wirt asks, voice muffled by his arms.

"How do _you_ know? You're going to take the word of the Woodsman? Try to piece together a bunch of jumbled things you barely remember or understand? So something weird happened and you ended up in a weird place! That doesn’t mean you’re not alive anymore!”

“I’m dead, Beatrice.”

Reaching out, Beatrice grabs Wirt’s hand and presses it to her chest. There’s no way he can’t feel the reverberation of her heart. She _needs_ him to feel it, because she can’t be dead, she absolutely refuses.

“Wirt, shut up. You’re alive.”

His hand is hot in hers, and it only strengthens her resolve. 

“You’re alive,” she says again, this time shoving both of their hands into his chest. He’s warm, and she can feel his pulse in her palm. Wirt starts to pull away, but Beatrice tightens her grip and tugs him forward. He half-crawls, is half-dragged to her until their knees are touching. 

“I’m alive,” Beatrice says, voice dipping into a whisper. She lets go of his hand to draw her arms around him. His body is shaking, he shakes his head against her. 

“You’re an idiot, and you’re alive.”

She cups his cheeks and shoves her lips against his. 

At first it’s just her, and, well, she’s never kissed anyone before, and with the stillness beneath her lips comes the inkling of doubt. But moments later Wirt comes _alive_. She has a heartbeat to process how funny the phrasing sounds in her head before all coherent thought drains away. 

Wirt kisses away the cold, and Beatrice kisses away the salt from his cheeks. Her eyes flutter closed, and she'd think it were weird if she weren't so captivated by the soft, gasping breaths Wirt takes in the space between when his lips leave hers and when they find them again.

One hand curls around the back of her head, and the other settles on her shoulder. Wirt gently pulls her closer, shifting her weight into him, and deepens the kiss she started. She follows his lead, alternating the pressure with which she returns his kisses, tilting her head to allow a closer press, and is rewarded with Wirt's light moan. Startled by the sound, she jerks away, breaking contact.

Still only inches apart, they stare at each other. Wirt's eyelashes are short and thin, his nose long and narrow, eyes a sort of muddy brown, and Beatrice concedes that he's the most handsome man she'd ever met. In an awkward, strange sense.

"If this is truly Death, then I must be in Heaven," Wirt murmurs, "For the sharp thrill of life holds no flame to the soft shadow of your touch."

He's being sweet, in his own Wirt way, and so Beatrice determines that the best means to keep from gagging or rolling her eyes is to kiss him again. Wirt responds eagerly, molding his mouth to hers. His thumb begins to trace light circles along her collarbone. Unsure of what to do with her hands, she again copies him. She rests both hands on his shoulders and drags her fingers gently over until they rest at the base of his head. In spite of the cold, she's fairly certain he's wearing too many layers of clothing, and just the inkling of where that thought could go sends a wave of heat across her skin. 

With little thought, Beatrice settles in Wirt's lap, further closing the narrow gap. They kiss until there is no space between them, and then kiss some more. Priding herself as a quick study, Beatrice has fallen into the rhythm of kissing Wirt, and it's just in the moment that her mind begins to wander that his tongue flickers across his bottom lip. A soft nip from teeth follow immediately after, a request. 

She parts her lips and Wirt's tongue probes in. What at first feels strange quickly escalates into a glorious slide of tongues and lips and teeth. It's harder to separate and breathe now but Beatrice doesn't care; it's as if she's gone lightheaded, but all over. Hours, or days, or weeks pass before they pause in their affections.

"Alive or dead, I'd be happy to spend the rest of my whatever like this," Wirt says. The gaze he levels on her is warm and wanting. Although his eyes are still rimmed with red and his cheeks still marred by sticky tracks from his tears, Wirt smiles at her, and she knows it's genuine.

"You're alive, Wirt," Beatrice sighs, and she _does_ roll her eyes this time, "And if not, you just kissed a dead girl for a very long time."

"You _are_ pretty lively..."

Even though it's light, he yelps when she smacks him on the arm. She leans in and kisses him again, briefly.

"Right here? I'm alive, and so are you, and if it turns out that we're not, then I'm going to need medical help, and then maybe retire to Pottsfield."

"You'd look good in pumpkin," Wirt says, nodding. She smacks him again, but he's expecting it this time.

“You are bony enough to be mistaken for a skeleton,” Beatrice teases. 

Wirt gives a whiny, indignant cry, then squishes her cheeks between his hands - bony hands - and lays a series of intentionally sloppy kisses on her lips, chin, cheeks, and nose. Laughing, she tries to kiss him back, and then wriggles away. Beatrice takes a deep breath, steeling herself, because as much as she wants to preserve the mood, keep Wirt smiling, keep making him kiss her, it has to be said.

“Wirt, if you’re right about this, and it turns out that you can’t go back home, I’m sorry. I mean it, that’s a serious downer - especially since that means I never get to have a cell phone or ride in a car. I’m sure you miss everyone too - your parents, and Greg, and Sara… I know how hard it can be to be separated from everyone you love.”

“Not everyone,” he says quietly. Sadness has crept back on his face, but it doesn’t fully overtake him; he squeezes her hand and smiles.

Beatrice’s pulse quickens and her stomach feels heavy. She thinks she knows what he means - there aren’t too many ways to interpret that, but she panics and, instead of saying something, starts to kiss him again.

This time when their lips meet, it’s with less fire. They instead melt into something slower, sweeter. Beatrice circles her arms around his neck, and Wirt places his hands at her hips. They sit there, kissing on the cramped balcony, for a long time. They kiss until her lips feel bruised and her knees ache and her back is a little stiff, and then they kiss some more.

“You know,” Beatrice starts once they pull away for air, “If we are actually dead, then maybe… maybe sometime once we’re both a little… deader, I guess… I could be your dumb dead wife, and we could go on some dumb dead people adventure, and then maybe start some dumb, dead family, and then when we’re deader and dumber than we’ll ever get retire to Pottsfield together.”

A contemplative look crosses Wirt’s face as he thinks on her proposition. He shakes his head a few seconds later.

“Nah, that’s dumb. I’d rather do all that with you while we’re alive.”

“What, so you’ve changed your mind?”

He shrugs, looking a little embarrassed. 

“It’s all just a matter of perspective, really.”

“You’re just saying that because you like kissing me, aren’t you?”

“Yeah, sure, that too.”


End file.
